


Juxtaposition

by notmyrevolution



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyrevolution/pseuds/notmyrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So,” Grantaire says casually one morning, sitting down at the table and looking at Enjolras over the top of his coffee cup. The steam rises, blurring his face. “This might come as an absolute surprise to you, and I’m glad you’re sitting down, because I’m about to declare my love for you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Juxtaposition

“So,” Grantaire says casually one morning, sitting down at the table and looking at Enjolras over the top of his coffee cup. The steam rises, blurring his face. “This might come as an absolute surprise to you, and I’m glad you’re sitting down, because I’m about to declare my love for you.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, I know,” Grantaire continues, his smile wide, “I bet you never saw this coming.”

The thing is, Enjolras wasn’t oblivious to other people’s emotions. Not really. He was logical and rational about them, but not always oblivious. That, combined with Grantaire’s complete lack of subtly in every aspect of his life mean that yes _, of course_  Enjolras saw this coming. He saw it coming months ago, between the sobriety and the shared showers and Grantaire buying the syrup to flavour his coffee even though he hated it.

“You know, usually, this is a pretty good time to say it back,” Grantaire suggests, tilting his head. He still looks amused, but Enjolras catches the hint of hope as Grantaire leans forward on his elbows.

The thing is, Enjolras is devoted to honesty. He likes to be certain about things, he hates saying things he doesn’t find sincere. He likes to be prepared for things, and even though he knew how Grantaire felt, he wasn’t expecting this, and he doesn’t know how to respond.

Grantaire still looks hopeful. He waits patiently, watching Enjolras as he sorts through his thoughts.

Enjolras likes Grantaire. Of course he does, he wouldn’t spend most of his time here if he didn’t. He wouldn’t suffer through cynical remarks and antagonistic arguing if he didn’t think it was worth the trouble. Enjolras doesn’t waste his time on things, on people, so why would he waste his time on Grantaire if he didn’t like him?

He just doesn’t know if he  _loves_  Grantaire. Love is complicated, frequently messy, and he’s never thought about it. He’s never  _had_  to think about it. This sort of love is very different from the love he feels for Combeferre, or for Jehan; the kind of love that comes naturally and easily. He’s never sat down and questioned his feelings for Grantaire, just accepted they were there and would figure it out later.

Now is later, apparently.

So Enjolras, who wants to be certain, who wants to be sincere, just says: “I’m fond of you.”

Grantaire’s head tilts to the side, and something in his face falls. He’s still smiling, but it seems forced. His entire posture slumps, shoulders sloping down dejectedly, as if Enjolras had just dismissed him entirely. It lasts only a few seconds, before Grantaire is straightening up again, pushing a hand through his hair and laughing. It’s all bravado, though, and they both know it. It’s a front that Grantaire always puts up if anger isn’t an option, because he’ll let Enjolras see him angry, see him wrecked with desire, see him stressed from work, see him shaking from sobriety, but he won’t ever let Enjolras see him  _upset_.

He pushes his chair back and gets to his feet, tapping Enjolras lightly on the shoulder as he pasts.

“For someone who is  _so good_  with people, Enjolras, you really are terrible at relationships,” Grantaire jokes, with a smile that’s easy but doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Enjolras bristles at that, because  _he’s here isn’t he?_ He doesn’t bother arguing it, though, he’s too tired and he has things to do.

It takes Grantaire weeks to loosen up again, to realise that just because Enjolras doesn’t have an understanding of his emotions doesn’t mean he’s about to walk out of Grantaire’s apartment and never return ( _something that nearly does make Enjolras walk out, because he doesn’t always understand Grantaire and he doesn’t always understand self-loathing, so when Grantaire loathes himself, Enjolras gets_ _ **frustrated**_ ).

–

It takes a while for Enjolras to work out what is going on inside his own head. Grantaire has settled, and so is patient, teasing him each time he doesn’t say it that  _one day I’ll overwhelm you with feelings and you’ll be forced to admit you love me_.

It’s raining. Enjolras notices this as he walks into the kitchen, that it’s raining because the kitchen is filled with grey light and it’s cold. He also notices Grantaire, which is not unusual since this is Grantaire’s apartment. It is, however, unusual for Grantaire to be up before him. Grantaire is the kind to sleep in until AM becomes PM, and still stumble out of bed. Grantaire faces the day with his eyes half closed, as he stumbles into the shower, out of the shower and only becomes human after his cigarette and a coffee. Yet he’s here, awake and in the kitchen, wearing only low-slung sweatpants and making coffee.

Enjolras sits down at the table, runs a hand through his hair and stifles a yawn.

“Why are you up?” He asks, reaching for the newspaper on the table, fingers twitching as he notices a headline bearing bad news.

“It was my turn to make coffee,” Grantaire says, shrugs a bare shoulder and turns towards the table, holding his mug in one hand and offering Enjolras’s mug to him with the other. “Here.”

Something in Enjolras clicks. He’s been thinking about it, of course he has, debating over and over if what he feels is genuine, about what it’s supposed to feel like, about whether he’ll ever be able to say it. Then here is Grantaire, awake early seemingly for the sole purpose of making Enjolras coffee because it was  _his turn_ , and it’s made perfectly because Grantaire knows how to make his coffee. It’s exactly how Enjolras likes it, complicated and sweet and everything Grantaire hates.

Enjolras feels his heart  _thump_  again his chest, and breathes in against the rush of his feelings.

“I love you,” Enjolras says,  _finally_ , letting it out in a huge rush of air.

Grantaire stirs his coffee absently.

“I know,” He says simply. The smile on his face betrays the casual tone of his voice, his body language, everything. It’s wide, pulling at the edges of his eyes and Enjolras feels something in his chest loosen.

“Just because it takes you a while to realise something,” Grantaire is saying, in between sips of his coffee, “Doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t notice. But hearing you say it…”

He trails off then. He doesn’t need to finish the sentence, they both know how much the validation means to Grantaire, how even if he  _knows_ something is absolutely true, he still craves physical reassurances of it. They both know that Enjolras  _saying_  the words mean they’re absolutely true, that Enjolras genuinely loves him and to Grantaire, that’s worth the wait. He pads over quietly, and leans down, dropping a kiss to the top of Enjolras’s head and breathing him in.

“I’m fond of you,” Grantaire says in response and Enjolras just laughs.


End file.
